


To Hell With All the Damn Romantics

by Count_B



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Nazi Germany, M/M, swing kids au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-25
Updated: 2009-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 22:59:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28625337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Count_B/pseuds/Count_B
Summary: Even in Nazi Germany, teenagers find their own diversions. Mikey throwing himself into dancing and swing music, Gerard isolating. Mikey finally forces Gerard to meet the swing kids he associates with, and Gerard falls in love with the whole movement. But the swing kids, though they seek their own amusement, have their own struggles.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way, Mikey Way/Pete Wentz





	To Hell With All the Damn Romantics

**Author's Note:**

> there are important warnings for this fic! One is a spoiler so it's in the end note
> 
> This fic is based on a movie that is set in Nazi Germany. Ableism, sexism, racism, and antisemitism are in this fic. Antisemitic slurs are used (not often, but I do not want anyone to read that without a heads-up)

"I don't know why I invite you guys over," Patrick grumbled from where he lay. "You just eat half my food and make a mess." He frowned at Pete and Frank where they sat in front of the record player, surrounded by stacks of records. Huge spaces in his shelves gaped at him.

Pete shrugged. "Sure you do. You love us, Patrick. Besides, we'll put everything back before we go."  
  
"You will not." Patrick yanked off his glasses and used his shirttail to furiously rub them clean before shoving them back on his face. "You always put them back in the wrong spots. I can handle it, I just don't see why you need to take out a dozen at a time. You're not here long enough to listen to all those."  
  
The room was crowded and there was hardly enough room for everyone. The walls were covered with posters for the musicians Patrick wished to emulate, shelves and crates of records taking up half the room. A record player sat on a stand in the middle of the room, everyone collected around it either on the floor or sitting in one of the two chairs Patrick owned. Bob and Mikey or Ray usually took the chairs, and if Pete or Frank managed to beat them to it, they usually got up soon and forfeited the chair to someone who was closer.  
  
Patrick didn't have a proper table, so the chest at the foot of his bed usually served that purpose, as well as holding most of his sheet music. The contents of Frank's pockets were scattered on top.  
  
"Hey Mikey." Frank deftly rolled a cigarette, hands moving faster than his casual tone, "Don’t you have a brother?"  
  
Mikey’s eyes were shut, intently focused on the record playing. He nodded absently.  
  
"How come you never bring him with at night?" Frank fidgeted, toes tapping the beat until the song finished. Mikey opened his eyes to lift the needle.  
  
"Um." Blinking, Mikey pushed his glasses higher on his nose. "Gerard doesn’t do much but study. He’s not-"  
  
"All work and no play…" Pete interrupted. "He might actually have fun for once." He snapped Mikey’s suspenders through the slotted chair back, laughing when Mikey scowled at him from behind round lenses.  
  
~  
  
Mikey got there late, almost dragging another man with. The man’s overcoat was unbuttoned, showing a sloppily knotted tie tucked into his vest only halfway; the vest itself was only half-buttoned.  
  
Scowling at Frank, Mikey nodded at the man. "Fine, I got him here. If we missed all the good songs, it’s your fault." He hung his coat and scarf on the back of a chair. "Everybody, this is my brother Gerard. Gerard, this is Frank, Bob, Ray, Patrick, and you know Pete."  
  
"Yeah, now if these lazy bums would finish their break and get back onstage, we could wow the crowd." Pete knocked the brim of Patrick’s fedora, earning a glare as Patrick clutched the hat to his head.  
  
He got to his feet and picked up his guitar again. "For the record, Way," Patrick smirked. "All our songs are good."  
  
Gerard was obviously trying not to stare as he limped across the room, the rest of the table silently staring at one another. "He got in a tussle with a gangster," Frank said, giggling when everyone stared at him instead, Gerard's jaw agape.  
  
Mikey rolled his eyes. "Don't listen to him, that's what he tells everybody." There was a pause before he answered. "Polio when he was a kid. He's still one of the greatest guitarists Germany's ever seen."  
  
"Damn right he is," Bob said as he stood. Picking up a pair of drumsticks from the table, he followed Patrick to the stage with Ray at his heels.  
  
Pete raised his eyebrows, giving Mikey a look as he hooked his head at the dance floor. "Come on," he pled, "You left me here all by my lonesome. None of these squares can dance worth anything."  
  
"Don't worry, I'll try not to scare your brother off," Frank promised, shooing Mikey away. Giving Gerard a watchful and worried look, Mikey followed Pete to the floor. Frank turned his full attention to the only person left at the table. "You ready for your first swing music?" he asked Gerard.  
  
"What?" Gerard fidgeted nervously, touching the half-empty glasses on either side of him. "I've heard Mikey's records before."  
  
"Screw Mikey's records." Frank laughed as Gerard's eyes widened. "Sure, the records are Artie, Benny, all the greats. But they don't mean a thing till you see and hear and feel what swing is for yourself. Live."  
  
The horns blared and Gerard jumped, startled. With another laugh, Frank pushed his glass over to Gerard, who downed it in one go. The tables around them sat empty as couples trailed onto the floor and began to dance. They watched, Gerard's eyes huge and Frank's hungry until Frank quit tapping his foot, shoving his chair back from the table and leaping to his feet. "I'll be back," he promised. "Unless... D'you wanna dance?"  
  
Fretting with his tie, Gerard shook his head. "Go ahead, I'll watch."  
  
~  
  
His eyes followed Frank out to the open space of the floor until he lost sight, Frank too short to be seen past other people.  
  
There were a few familiar faces around; people Gerard had seen at school, work, the grocer. They looked different here, smiling and laughing with a foreign energy. Even Mikey looked different here, from the glimpses Gerard caught of him and Pete in the thick of things. It was nothing like when Pete would come over and Mikey would clear space in the living room for them to practice. They looked less awkward and out of place, surrounded as they were by other dancing pairs.  
  
After a couple songs, a grinning, sweaty Frank came back to the table and sprawled in the chair next to Gerard.  
  
"You’re a swing kid now," Frank tsked, flicking Gerard’s tie. "Take some pride in your dress." His hands were at work unknotting the tie before Gerard could protest that coming with his brother one time made him no such thing.  
  
He still hadn’t figured out what to say when Frank let go of his retied neckwear and started unbuttoning his vest. "Hey!"  
  
Ignoring his protests, Frank smoothed the tie down against Gerard’s shirt and re-buttoned the vest over it properly. He gave a little nod, and smiled at Gerard. "So, what do you think?"  
  
Gerard blinked, running a hand through his hair. "I- uh- Thank you?"  
  
Frank laughed. "I meant," he waved a hand around the room, "You know, the whole experience, the music, all that jazz."  
  
"Oh." Gerard fiddled with one of the hats thrown on the table. "I- The people here are different." After a slight pause, he rushed to reassure, "I like it. Everybody seems freer." He was startled when Frank darted away out of nowhere, but a couple minutes later Frank was back with two glasses. He handed one to Gerard.  
  
"I didn't know what you like, so I just got what your brother always gets, is that okay?" Gerard grinned awkwardly and nodded, sipping the drink. He hadn't been expecting to be one of the group right away like this; it was strange.  
  
The night passed far more quickly than Gerard expected and he was a little disappointed when everyone came back to the table, disrupting Frank's explanation of who was who and why it mattered, usually things like "he has an awesome hat" or "she works at a bakery and she'll slip a little something extra to swing kids."  
  
Sweaty and grinning, Mikey asked Gerard if he'd enjoyed himself and he nodded, a little surprised at himself. Everyone picked up their hats and shrugged back into their overcoats, making their way outside. They split into groups going different directions, Frank joining Pete, Mikey, and Gerard on their way along the riverfront.  
  
"Race you to the bridge!" Pete dashed off, Mikey and Frank racing after.  
  
A couple paces in, Frank stopped, almost tripping over himself. "You don’t run?"  
  
Gerard made a face. "Ugh. Not if I can help it."  
  
Matching his pace, Frank pulled a pouch from his pocket. "You smoke?"  
  
"Yeah!" Gerard beamed. "Thanks, I ran out of tobacco a couple days ago." He quit swinging the umbrella he held, tucking it under his arm so he could use both hands to light the cigarette Frank rolled.  
  
"I hate it when that happens; I bum off the other fellas then, since Pete and Mikey don’t really smoke." They took their time catching up to the others at the bridge, Gerard laughing when Frank made fun of the posters they walked past, huge papers glued to brick buildings with slogans about joining the HJ and listening to German music.  
  
~  
  
It was just a low-paying job on the weekends, but Mikey liked being a delivery boy for the small bookseller around the corner. He had grown up going there, picking up books for his mother and grandmother, running his hands along the bindings and saving his pocket money to buy one every once in a while. The owner was practically family Mikey had known him so long, and Mikey knew that was how he got the job in the first place.  
  
Times were hard for everyone, but when Mikey had gone months without stopping in, Mr. Harris had mentioned needing someone to help out for a couple hours a week. One job had quickly become two, Mikey splitting his hours with his brother. Having a job was nice. It meant he got to help out with making ends meet, plus buy himself a few records or a new tie he didn't really need sometimes. Not to mention he still got to see interesting books and people.  
  
His deliveries rarely took more than an hour to do unless it was the Christmas season, and if there weren't any deliveries then Mr. Harris could usually find something for him to do in the shop. The shop was nice, if a little cramped. It was filled with all sorts of books in an order only Mr. Harris seemed to understand. Mikey was dead certain he knew exactly where every book he owned was; whenever someone phoned or came in looking, he always went straight to the right shelf, even if the person wasn't sure what book he or she wanted.  
  
Mikey walked into work and Mr. Harris waved at him, not leaving his conversation with a familiar-looking couple. Most of his business was repeat customers, and Mikey knew better than to interrupt. He waited by the desk, running his finger along the stacks of books and parcels stacked on the top.  
  
When the customers finally left, Mr. Harris crossed to the desk and jotted down something in his ledger, giving Mikey a smile. "Sorry about that," he apologized and picked up a stack of brown paper packages, handing them to Mikey.  
  
"No, that's fine." He looked at the addresses Mr. Harris had written down. "The usual?" he double-checked, and the boss nodded.  
  
"People don't read like they used to. They're too busy marching." He snorted and Mikey couldn't help but think that if Mr. Harris was a few years younger, he would make a good swing kid. The mental image made Mikey snort too.  
  
Pushing his glasses further up on his face, Mikey shrugged. "Not me."  
  
"Oh, wait. There _is_ one more." Mr. Harris ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, making it stand on end. He pulled a book from the shelf behind him without even looking, quickly tying it up in brown paper and string, scribbling down the address onto the paper for Mikey. "It's not too far out of your way, just on the other side of the river."  
  
It was windy when Mikey left the shop, and the sky was overcast. He clutched the stack to his chest and walked the familiar roads, tugging his hat more firmly onto his head. It didn't look like rain, or at least he hoped it wouldn't rain. Rain on the weekend always killed any chance of just wandering around town with Pete, hitting the docks or whatever.  
  
There was a commotion on the street and Mikey stopped, curious what was happening. SS officers and the Gestapo milled about in their strict uniforms, making his skin crawl. They seemed to be emptying a house of anything that held any value, from furniture to the record player and the fine china and silver. Mikey couldn't help but notice one in particular, carrying off a large, beautiful radio he eyed enviously.  
The officer cracked a joke with another officer who was holding a paintbrush and Mikey noticed they were painting a words on the door in large white letters: Traitor. He shivered and started moving again, trying not to look.  
  
Mikey’s deliveries went as usual, one of the ladies offering him a hot drink and another offering a cookie. He accepted gratefully, knowing everyone had little enough to share what with rationing. The usual deliveries done, Mikey turned his attention to the new address.  
  
The other side of the river was similar enough to his own side, people crowding the streets as it grew later in the day and they set about heading home from work or doing their daily shopping. Mikey moved faster, running later than he'd realized. With how cloudy the sky remained, he hadn't been able to see the sun go down but it was almost time for sunset.  
  
He finally found the building he was looking for, a tall apartment building of faded red bricks not unlike the one his family lived in. Mikey made his way inside, catching a whiff of dinner cooking in one of the apartments. After a pause to double-check the apartment number, Mikey trotted up the stairs. The boards of the stairs were worn out; they clattered and creaked beneath him in a way that made him not want to linger. The smells of meat coming from a door as he passed it made Mikey suddenly aware how hungry he was. He found the right door and rapped on it impatiently, eager to get home to his own supper.  
  
There wasn't an answer, with all the noise of an overfull building with walls just a hair too thin. He knocked again, louder this time.  
  
The door cracked open and a tall man stood there in the doorway, slight scowl on his face. "What do you- Oh, you're not one of the neighbors." He opened the door wider and gestured with one hand for Mikey to follow him inside.  
  
There was music blaring and Mikey realized why he had first assumed a knock at the door would be a complaining neighbor. The man crossed to the record player, turning it quieter, but not before Mikey recognized the piece. Startled, he couldn't help but say, "That's Beethoven's Piano Trio in B Flat Major, right?"  
  
Seeming just as surprised as Mikey at his recognition, the customer paused over the record player, looking up. "It is. Do you study classical music?"  
  
Mikey shook his head sheepishly. "I think my father's the violinist."  
  
"You're Don Way's boy?" he asked. When Mikey nodded he offered his hand. "Gabe Asher. I never met your dad, but I was sorry to hear what happened to him."  
  
Mikey bit his lip and shook the out-stretched hand.  
  
~  
  
Mikey didn't look up when he pushed open the door to the record shop, even when Ray waved and greeted him. They were officially closing soon, but as a regular and a friend of Ray’s, he knew he wouldn’t be kicked out. He needed to be there just then, needed to find his peace in music.  
  
The store was empty as he bypassed rows of albums, heading straight to the classical section. With practiced familiarity, Mikey collected a stack of records, hardly having to look to know exactly where the ones he sought were.  
  
He curled up in the corner of the listening booth, arms wrapped around his knees as he listened, trying not to cry. Failing in that, Mikey felt tears running down his face as he changed the record, hearing his father play in a way he hadn't played since Mikey was small. Some of his earliest memories were music like this as his father practiced, but his violin playing had stopped before Mikey felt like he really had a chance to appreciate it or tell his father how much it meant to him. Gerard was a great brother, but Mikey missed having a father.  
  
It wasn’t something he ever talked about. There wasn’t anything that anyone could do about it; his father was dead and that was that. It would only make Gerard look miserable and hurt and make their mother frown in that worried, upset way she had if he said anything to either of them. Mikey hated bringing that look to her face; she wore it easily enough over things he couldn’t stop.  
  
By the time he felt better enough to leave, Mikey knew he was late for dinner. He returned the records to where they belonged carefully, nodding his goodbye and thanks to Ray as he left. The shop had been closed for a while, but Ray was a nice guy. He followed Mikey out, offering a quick hug and a quiet, “I’m sorry,” as he locked the door and they went their separate ways to go home for the night.  
  
~  
  
Frank walked into the record shop, nodding at Ray by the counter. He headed towards the swing section, only to find a familiar person already flipping through the albums there. "Gerard? Did Mikey con you into going out to check out the new shipment?"  
  
Gerard shook his head, taking his hands away from the records almost guiltily. He managed to knock one down in the process, but somehow managed to catch it and put it back on the shelf without anything breaking. "Um, I thought I'd check it out for myself. I have no idea what I'm looking for though," he admitted.  
  
"Lemme see what you have." Frank took the record Gerard had just put down and eyed the label. He whistled. "Benny Goodman, not bad for a first-timer."  
  
"What?" Gerard leaned closer to look at the label again. "No, it's Shmarkle Shmalinger."  
  
Bending even closer, Frank double-checked the label. "Huh? Nope, definitely Benny. The bastards banned him so they changed the name to get past the censors."  
  
"That's fucking brilliant," Gerard smiled toothily. "Like being an international spy or something."  
  
"Only you're protecting something better than some goddamn crown jewels." Frank ushered Gerard towards the listening booth. "You're protecting our freedom to listen to music."  
  
Gerard sat with a rapt expression on his face as the record played. For the most part, Frank stayed quiet with him, a few comments and explanations bursting out before he could stop them. "You can talk, I don't mind," Gerard said after the first song. "I don't listen to music much."  
  
"Why not, if you don't mind my asking?" Frank hooked his thumb at the record player. "You seem to like it. I get that your father taught at the conservatory Patrick goes to, but why give up something so...fucking alive?"  
  
Gerard shook his head, staring out the window of the listening booth. "He never played after he came back. Mama didn't sell his violin until after... But when they took him, they took our music. Mikey was a little younger, so maybe he didn't feel the same way about it, but it felt safer, the quiet." Swallowing a lump in his throat, Gerard pulled away from the hand Frank had placed on his shoulder. "Our papa was a good man. If they'd take his music away, they'd take it from us too. I never claimed to be brave."  
  
Frank frowned, nudging his toe at the wooden door to the listening booth. "Not being brave doesn't mean you have to be so chickenshit you don't even let yourself be alive and fucking enjoy it." His mouth clamped shut. "Sorry. I- fuck, I run my mouth a lot, I shouldn't have said that."  
  
Gerard's mouth twisted wryly. "At least I know you're not lying to me. Not a lot of people say what they mean like that."  
  
"I can't just leave with you pissed like this," Frank decided. "Go ahead and take a swing at me if it'll help, I won't try to stop you or fight back." When Gerard didn't react, Frank grabbed his arm and guided it to his own face, using the hand to smack himself lightly. "There, we're even."  
  
Laughing, Gerard tugged his arm back. "Maybe I don't think so." Frank's face fell, but he sat up straighter, turning his cheek towards Gerard. "Not that. Tell me more about this fucking swing music thing. What's your favorite?"  
  
"I'll do one better, I'll play it for ya." Frank darted out of the listening booth, Gerard almost tripping in his haste to follow. "You'll probably hear people talking about the Andrews sisters and shit, but I gotta say I don't like 'em. The songs are good but they don't sing with enough passion like they mean it. Watered down pop shit." He started flipping through albums, rapidly moving from row to row in his quest.  
  
"Who do you like then? Vocally?"  
  
Frank shrugged. "I'll let you know if anyone ever jumps out at me." He grinned, handing a record to Gerard. "Louis fucking Prima. Patrick could tell you everybody playing, all I know is Gene Krupa on drums and Benny Goodman on clarinet and that is it fucking perfect."  
  
Heading back to the listening booth, they turned up the volume and swapped out records. As he started the record, Frank couldn't help but sway to the music. The movement carried through his body, hips moving as the song continued, the drums and horns drawing a reaction from him. He took one step, then another, grinning madly.  
  
It wasn't until Ray scolded him loudly from the counter that Frank realized he was fully dancing and Gerard was staring at him.  
  
"Turn that down and save the dancing," Ray begged again. "You're scaring off my other customers and it's not like you ever buy anything." He gave Frank a miserable look from his spot behind the counter.  
  
"I'll buy it," Gerard interrupted and Frank grinned at Ray smugly.  
  
"Finally someone who appreciates my dancing!"  
  
~  
  
Pete felt like he lived for the nights they could go out dancing. He enjoyed hanging out with the guys, but sometimes he just thought he would explode if he wasn’t doing something. Tapping his foot impatiently, he waited for Mikey to show up. It wasn’t the same dancing with anyone else; they didn’t weigh the same, didn’t know how to follow his lead the way Mikey did.  
  
By the time Gerard and Mikey walked into the club, Pete was so eager to get out on the floor that he ran across the room to meet them halfway. “What took you so long?” he asked, hurrying Mikey to their table.  
  
“Gerard couldn’t find the right vest,” Mikey said, his smile almost laughing. “I was ready a while ago, but he wanted me to wait for him.” Pete snatched the fedora off his head, tossing it at the table.  
  
He tapped his fingers on the table while Mikey unbuttoned his overcoat and slung it over the back of a chair, grabbing his arm and dragging him to the floor as soon as it was off. “Your brother having fun shouldn’t make me have less fun,” he complained, but he grinned.  
  
The band was mid-song, but Pete didn’t care, grabbing Mikey’s hands and bringing him straight into a complicated series of knots and turns that he made up as he went. Mikey grinned back at him as he got stuck and had to work his way through them in reverse before finally launching into a fast-paced pattern of left, right, backstep with Mikey mirroring his movements.  
  
They’d done this enough times that when Pete went to toss Mikey over his shoulders, Mikey was ready, rolling over them easy only to slide along the floor until, on the right beat, Pete tugged him back to his feet to slip back into the basic step. As the guitar solo began, Mikey took the lead briefly, using one of the dance moves they’d only just perfected the week before. It was a little rough, but Pete trusted Mikey not to let him fall and almost laughed when he was back on the ground, exhilarated.  
  
A young man ran in, panting. “The HJs are coming,” he yelled. It was like a switch had flipped, the laughter immediately sucked out of the dancehall. The band transitioned straight into a traditional song, dropping the song they had been playing and the dance floor thinned out as couples switched from swing dancing to a more sedate polka or quit dancing entirely.  
  
Pete had Mikey in mid-air, but once Mikey was back on the ground they parted, looking around at the change. They felt abandoned, almost, unwelcome on a dance floor that seemed so proper. Shrugging, Pete headed over to the table, Mikey on his heels.  
  
Just as they were sitting down, a row of half a dozen HJs marched in. Pete couldn’t even bear to look at them, not really. He hated how bland and boring they were, how completely dull the polka was. If he was going to spend his time going out to dance, he wanted to have fun, he wanted to break the rules, and he did not want to listen to any authority figure to find out how to do it. Those plain uniforms signified everything he hated about Germany.  
  
Though the girls wore make-up and had their hair down and curled, the boys wore their hair long, and their fashions were not the down-to-earth look so many of their countrymen had taken to, there were no rules being broken. Not as far as the HJ could see, anyhow, and there was no way for them to prove what music the band had been playing so long as none of them had heard it.  
  
It kind of made Pete feel like a gangster from some American novel, like he was at some speakeasy. Maybe even like he was in some American radio drama, the lucky guy from Chicago who knew the boss and was liked by all the dames. It was thrilling being one of the guys on the inside, a guy who knew the secret password to get in. He liked feeling like he was really a part of something, smiling smugly at the thought that these schmucks were on the outside.  
  
Mikey nodded at one of the HJs, hissing, “Isn’t that Ryan?”  
  
The others all looked at the row of uniformed young men. It took a moment to notice, the lack of a fedora and long hair, the absence of interesting scarves and ties hard to process, but the face was definitely familiar. “But he’s the original hep-cat!” Patrick protested, even though it was obviously him.  
  
Pete sighed. “I’d wondered why he wasn’t around lately.” He shook his head sadly, hand on his chest. They all sat silent, as if to honor the passing of one of their own.  
  
~  
  
Patrick leaned back, looking around his room, a serious expression on his face. He’d been thinking all night, and now it was time to figure out some things. “Ryan’s a swing kid. Once you’re a swing kid, it’s for life.”  
  
Ray shrugged doubtfully, “I mean, I don’t know… He might be?” It was a rare occasion for him not to have an instrument in his hands, but they were all focused on the conversation at hand. Even Pete and Frank were completely focused, Patrick’s shelves of records untouched.  
  
“Nobody who likes swing could be a Nazi.” Patrick met everyone’s eyes one by one, forcing each of them to think about it. The best musicians and composers in swing were black or Jewish; there was no way someone who appreciated that could genuinely be a part of something that had so much propaganda against those people.  
  
“Then what was he doing in the HJ like that?” Pete asked finally.  
  
Frank snorted and gave him a shove. “It’s compulsory. Just because we’re a bunch of god-forsaken juvenile delinquents doesn’t mean everybody else is.”  
  
The door burst open and Gerard ran in, running late because his university was a further walk than their schools. “An HJ just passed me on a bicycle,” he exclaimed eagerly, “And he whistled the signal.”  
  
“He whistled Don’t Mean a Thing?” Pete frowned.  
  
“Yeah.” Gerard nodded as he tugged off his coat. “A real fucking swing kid.”  
  
“How do you know that?” Bob wondered, giving Gerard an appraising look.  
  
Patrick shook his head, smug. “Come on, it’s gotta be. It took Pete a month to learn to whistle that.”  
  
“That’s because Pete’s tone deaf,” Frank laughed.  
  
~  
  
"You wanna dance?"  
  
"No," Gerard gave the same answer he’d given to Frank the last two nights he’d come with Mikey. "Why don’t you ask one of the girls over there?" He gestured to the tables around them.  
  
"Birds go fast around here." Gerard raised an eyebrow. "…And most of the girls here won’t dance with me anymore. Why don’t you ever dance? Don’t you have it like, burning inside you, here?" He pressed a hand to Gerard’s stomach.  
  
"N-" Gerard bit his lip, blushing as Frank pulled his hand back. "I don’t- I don’t know how." His eyes cut to Mikey and Pete, in the middle of the dance floor.  
  
"So?" Frank tugged his arm. "I can teach you. Sort of. It’s fun!"  
  
Gerard almost pulled away, but the drums kicked in and Frank took advantage of the distraction. He tried to grab hold of a chair, the table, anything, but Frank was too quick for him, so arms flailing, Gerard found himself on the dance floor.  
  
They didn't sit down until the band took a break between sets. Sweat was practically running down Gerard's very red face but he didn't stop grinning, even as he collapsed into a chair.  
  
Mikey eyed him suspiciously, one eyebrow cocked. "Are you sure you're still Gerard?" he asked in that quiet way which left everyone unsure if he was serious.  
  
Laughing, Gerard nodded. "Christ, Mikey, that was fun," he beamed.  
  
Mikey blinked and turned to Frank. "You got my brother to dance," he half-asked, half-said. "Nobody's done that since I was ten."  
  
Everyone was awkwardly quiet for a moment, realizing that must have been when their father was taken away, but Mikey smiled, eyes bright, and Pete gave him a squeeze.  
  
"Guess we've got some competition on the dance floor," he said with raised eyebrows. "I gotta prove I'm dancing with the best Way."  
  
~  
  
Patrick sat on the bed, blindfolded, listening to the commotion filling his apartment. There were people flipping through his records and having hushed conversations about the pros and cons of what they were, Ray had picked up his guitar and was tuning it, and there was something cozy about hosting the little nest of swing kids.  
  
Frank repeated a joke that made everybody groan except Gerard, who giggled in a very high pitch until they all stared and even Patrick peeked from the blindfold. Gerard fidgeted awkwardly as he fell silent and Pete handed Mikey a record so Patrick slipped the blindfold back on. With a snort, Mikey handed it back. "He'll get it in like two seconds, come on, make it tougher."  
  
Grinning, Patrick sat up straighter, ear turned towards the record player. Ray set aside the guitar and Pete started a new record playing. "Good luck," Pete snarked.  
  
"I don't need luck, I already have it pegged," Patrick smirked. "Harlem. September 14th, 1937. Teddy Foster on trumpet, Freddy Gardner alto, J-" There was a horrible scratching sound and Patrick tore off the blindfold to see Pete guiltily standing by the record player, hand on the arm.  
  
"It slipped! I'm sorry, Patrick, it just slipped, I didn't mean to," he hastily said, ashen-faced. Patrick hobbled over to the record player and took off the album, holding it to the light. A deep scratch was visible across the whole record. "I'll buy you a new one."  
  
Patrick snorted. "A new one? Christ, Pete, you don't even know what to look for. If I was _lucky_ I might be able to find something at the docks but even then..." Scowling, he shoved the ruined record back into its sleeve.  
  
"What do you mean, I wouldn't even know what to look for?" Pete griped. "Just because I can't tell you everything about every damn swing record on the planet. Hell, the only reason you can is you can't dance to 'em."  
  
"Pete!" Mikey exclaimed, but Patrick didn't want to listen to a forced apology.  
  
"Get out," he growled, shoving at Pete. "Just get out of here."  
  
Mikey tried to get between them. "It was an accident, Patrick, he's sorry."  
  
"You always take his side and I am sick of it! Get out, all of you get out!"  
  
~  
  
“Had a rough day?” Pete asked Mikey when he answered the door with a frown embedded in his face. Mikey sighed and nodded, crossing his arms on his chest. “Me too. Grab your coat.”  
  
Within a few minutes, the two of them were walking down the street, both feeling better from the company, even without talking about it. Their hands brushed together as they walked and Mikey smiled at Pete, making him glad he had decided to head to Mikey’s instead of just sit at home. Every once in a while one of them would comment on something he’d just seen, drawing the other’s attention to a stray dog or little kids playing cowboys and Indians, but for the most part they walked in silence.  
  
The further they walked, the happier Mikey seemed to be, making Pete happier too. It made sense to him, needing someone else to distract from thoughts of one kind or another.  
  
As he and Mikey walked past the bakery, Mikey stopped and Pete did too, confused. Mikey hissed, indicating an SA officer talking to a woman covered in flour. He was holding a large box radio. "I've seen him before," Mikey said quietly with a hint of abhorrence. "He stole that radio in a raid."  
  
"It's a nice-looking radio," Pete agreed, watching as the officer entered the bakery with the woman and set it up in the corner. "Wish we had something that nice."  
  
"Yeah," Mikey sighed, eyes on the fine wooden radio. "We could give it to Patrick, listen to Benny live maybe."  
  
Pete laughed. "Hell yeah. I can see the look on his face..." He paused, giving Mikey a quick look. "...we could. That radio's as much ours as his."  
  
Hesitating, Mikey's eyes moved back and forth between Pete and the radio. "I don't know. I mean, it's not like we can just walk in there and take it."  
  
"Why not?" Pete asked, eyes sparking with excitement. "That radio's not his, it's not hers, and fuck them, we'd use it better than they ever would."  
Mikey sighed, eyes latching on Pete's. "Do you have a plan?"  
  
Pete was unable to contain a triumphant grin. "Not yet."  
  
"We are so screwed," Mikey mumbled under his breath, leaning closer to Pete as Pete started wildly plotting.  
  
Five minutes later he had a plan that might work, if they did it right and worked fast. They got a couple tomatoes and smashed them on Pete's shirt. The red guts weren't very convincing blood, but they'd work for a couple minutes if nobody got a close look.  
  
Clutching his chest, Pete stumbled in the bakery door. "Help me," he groaned loudly, moving towards the bakeress. She looked up, alarmed, and Pete clutched at her. "Help me, you gotta help me," he moaned, tugging her towards the back of her shop.  
  
As Pete continued his loud complaints, Mikey slipped in the front door, quickly unplugging the radio. When he moved to pick it up, the radio scraped against the table with a slight rasp and the woman turned to check out the sound. Pete grabbed her shoulders, trying to regain her attention as Mikey ran out the door with the radio in his arms.  
  
For the first time, she gave him a good look and Pete could see the moment she realized he was faking. He pushed past her, laughing as he ran after Mikey, leaning against his shoulder when they stopped running a little ways down the street.  
  
She ran out after them, yowling like a cat. "Stop! Stop thieves," she screeched, shaking her fist angrily. "Those boys stole my radio!"  
  
It wasn't until then that Pete and Mikey noticed a couple SA officers were still hanging around, and they began running down the street again, plowing down pedestrians as they went. Mikey started lagging and Pete realized the radio was slowing him down.  
  
"Come on," he called over his shoulder frantically. "We gotta get outta here." He saw a truck at a red light up ahead and aimed for it, but Mikey was still just a hair too slow. Pete climbed into the bed of the truck, holding out his hand to help Mikey up. "Drop it. Drop the damn radio, it's not worth it," he pled as Mikey fell further behind.  
  
"No!" Mikey insisted, unable to see the officers barely three paces behind him. He tripped on the uneven road and the radio smashed at his feet just as one of the officers grabbed his shoulder. Pete was helpless and knew there was no point in them both being arrested, so he stayed in the truck, watching them haul Mikey off as the truck pulled away. His eyes stayed latched on Mikey until the truck had gone too far and he couldn’t see Mikey anymore.  
  
Once he got out of the truck, Pete made his way to Mikey's house. He stared at the door, knowing they wouldn't be happy with him for what he had to share. It would be better to just get it over with, so finally Pete knocked on the door. He knew it took a little bit to get to the door, but still he pounded impatiently at his wait.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he said as Gerard opened the door, an unhappy look on his face from the disturbance.  
  
Gerard’s look of unhappiness shifted to one of concern and reluctant interest. “Why are you sorry?” he asked with puzzlement.  
  
“I-” Pete frowned and bit his lip, trying to peer around Gerard and into the dim hallway behind him. “Is your mother home? I should probably come in and tell her.” He couldn’t see anything in the apartment, not even the clock to know if she was due to be there.  
  
The mistrust on Gerard’s face grew at that. “Where’s Mikey?” he asked suspiciously. “I thought he was out with you.”  
  
Pete’s face fell and he shuffled his feet nervously. He gave Gerard an earnest look. “Just let me in and I’ll explain, I swear.”  
  
After a long moment of staring at Pete from the doorway, Gerard finally opened the door wider and backed away so he could walk in. Pete thanked him and made his way to the living room, sitting on the edge of the couch tensely while Gerard called to his mother. He hated being stared down, but Pete found himself forced to endure it the whole time he sat there waiting for Mrs. Way to appear.  
  
Her blonde hair was a mess when she finally came into the room, the buttons on her dress fastened wrong. She had clearly just gotten home from work and was in the process of changing out of her work clothes. “What is it? What has happened to my Mikey?”  
  
~  
  
Frowning, Gerard fetched the sharp scissors from their mother's sewing basket. "You're lucky mama doesn't skin you alive for pulling shit like that," he called over his shoulders, tossing spools of thread and a pincushion back in before meeting Mikey in the kitchen. A chair sat in the middle of the room, tugged in from the dining room.  
  
"You're lucky she doesn't cut off your tongue for using words like that in her house." Mikey handed Gerard the sheet he'd fetched from another room and sat down.  
  
Sighing, Gerard shook out the sheet and slung it around Mikey's neck. “I’d guess how you want it, but…” He picked up the comb. “All short?” He combed out Mikey's hair, running his fingers through it before wetting the comb and running it through his hair again.  
  
“It’ll grow back,” Mikey mumbled, sitting up straight as Gerard held the scissors up to the light, making a practice snip to check the blades were sharp enough. He took off his glasses, holding them in his lap and blinking at how blurred the far side of the kitchen had become.  
  
Trying not to wince, Gerard brought the scissors up to Mikey's head, carefully snipping his hair short. The locks of hair fell to the floor and Mikey shut his eyes, unable to block the sound of each snip of the scissor blades. "I can't believe they're making you join the goddamn HJ," Gerard griped, frowning again and tilting his head to check his cut. He ran the comb through Mikey's hair again, making a few quick cuts and stepping back to examine his work again.  
  
"I know," Mikey agreed quietly. "It's just… They said if I didn't, it'd make trouble for mama. I didn't want to- she has it hard enough already." They fell silent, both in agreement.  
  
Gerard evened out the ends and eyed his work again, unsure if it was short enough. He brought the scissors back against Mikey's neck, trimming off a bit more. Mikey's hands tightened around his glasses, unable to keep from making a face at the cold metal reminder of what was going on. "That and the uniform. Do you really have to wear it?" Gerard complained. "It's so- I don't know the right slang for it."  
  
~  
  
Mikey was nervous setting foot in the building where the HJ met. He knew he couldn’t be truant without his mother hearing about it, but if he didn’t have to go yet, he wouldn’t. Instead he hung back, waiting in the hallway where no one would talk to him.  
  
His eyes followed all the other young men there, all of them in uniforms just like his own. It was stiff and uncomfortable, like he was wearing an ill-fitting disguise. Mikey couldn’t help but think if he was a spy, this would be so much cooler. As it was, it was just a nerve-wracking experience, and he was eager for it to end.  
  
Someone grabbed his arm and tugged him even further out of the way. Mikey bit back a scream, tense and certain one of these HJs would beat him up. They could probably tell he wasn’t really one of them, but he didn’t want to be there and he couldn’t see anything changing that.  
  
A familiar laugh broke into his thoughts and Mikey finally realized who the person in the uniform was. “Pete?” he asked incredulously. “What’re you doing here?”  
  
Pete shrugged, running a hand self-consciously through his own close-cropped hair. “Thought maybe I’d keep you company. Since it’s pretty much my fault you’re here anyway.”  
  
Grinning, Mikey hugged him. “It’s good you’re here. At least I’ll have someone to laugh about this shit with.”  
  
“I know,” Pete groaned, “Did they get all uber-Nazi ‘I’m a big tough German and I love my country so should you’ with you too when they gave you the uniform?”  
  
~  
  
The day was sunny and almost warm, despite the season. Though there had been rainstorms daily for the past week, the clouds had finally broken and Patrick had managed to leave his apartment, confident the weather would hold long enough for him to reach the docks and get back.  
  
He had missed a couple shipments, but even so, Patrick's meticulous search through the records there yielded one new find. As more and more often, he found nothing, Patrick could hardly contain his excitement. He was eager to get home to his record player, make himself comfortable, and have the first listen. There was always something magical about that, the first moment his ears managed to hear something new.  
  
His delight grew with every step as he walked home. Patrick couldn't resist throwing a few clumsy dance steps into his walk, weaving his feet together in an approximation of what he'd spent to many hours watching others do. He could practically hear his new record already, the sax and clarinet dancing together, a rolling drumbeat...  
  
Lost in anticipation as he was, Patrick didn't really notice he was sharing the street with anyone, let alone with a bunch of HJs. Even when they started taunting him, he wasn't fazed. As far as Patrick was concerned, being called Swing Boy was a badge of honor, not an insult, and true besides. Patrick wasn't even that worried when they started trailing after him, but by the time one of them snatched the record from his hand, he was getting a little steamed.  
  
Holding the record close to his face, the HJ read the label intently. "Oh, Benny Goodman," he commented with an interested tone of voice, laughing as he tugged it out of Patrick's reach. When Patrick tried again to snatch it from him, one of the other HJs gave Patrick a shove, almost knocking him off his feet. Patrick struggled to keep standing and not fall down the hill. "You know this is kike music, right?" a uniform asked snidely. They all looked the same to him, with the same attitude of superiority simply due to the clothes they wore.  
  
"What's your name?" one of them asked, drawing a notepad from his pocket.  
  
Patrick stood up straighter, meeting his eyes. "Artie Shaw." He was backhanded so hard his head reeled, but Patrick didn't back down. "Gene Krupa." The HJ pulled back his arm to hit Patrick again when someone interrupted, "I know who he is."  
  
When he realized the new voice was Ryan, Patrick's eyes lit up and he unintentionally stood up even straighter, unable to help feeling a little cocky. "Patrick Stumph. With an h." Patrick watched as his name was written down.  
  
The HJ holding the record smashed it in the street.  
  
Some small part of him knew it was irrational, knew it was a bad idea, but he was seeing red. The utter wrongness horrified Patrick, that people his age were educated - or uneducated, more like - in a way to think the only way to be safe was destroying something beautiful.  
  
Patrick shoved the HJ, swinging his umbrella at another. They were standing uphill from him, so he didn't really have the leverage when they fought back. One of them kicked him, hard, and try as he might to keep standing, Patrick failed, falling to the ground, dropping the umbrella.  
  
They circled around him, hurling insults along with their blows. Ryan stood back and watched, arms crossed on his chest. The umbrella was at his feet, and Patrick was pretty sure if he stretched out his hand, he could reach it and defend himself once more. Repressing the urge to curl up and protect his ribs from their boots, Patrick instead reached out, grasping desperately for the umbrella. It was a further off than he thought, but his fingers were brushing against cloth. Just a little more stretching and he'd have it.  
  
All of a sudden, there was a sharp, jarring pain in Patrick's fingers, and he looked up to see Ryan had moved, stomping on his hand. "Let's see you play that nigger kike music now," he said, a touch of bitterness in his tone. Twisting his toes from side to side, Ryan ground Patrick's fingers against the pavement, the shattered bones rubbing together unnaturally. One of the boots to his chest made a cracking sound and the pain grew even worse. Still trying to fight back, Patrick noticed his vision going black.  
  
~  
  
The painkillers were strong enough Patrick had hardly been awake since the attack. He was vaguely aware of doctors, nurses, and his friends coming and leaving, but Patrick spent most of his time lost in the hazy dreams made more intense by the drugs.  
  
He fought his way out of a nightmare, only to start at the sight of his dream turned reality. The HJs were there in the room with him, and Patrick shouted, arms flailing wildly despite the pain. In bed as he was, there was no way for him to run, the bed sheets tangled about him too tight to escape or back away.  
  
"It's okay, Patrick, it's okay," Bob said, hands on his shoulders as he tried to calm Patrick down. "It's just Pete and Mikey." It took a couple minutes for Patrick to finish waking enough to process the words and sag back against the bed.  
  
As Pete and Mikey drew close in crisp new HJ uniforms, he couldn't help but shrink back from them. Mikey tapped Pete's shoulder, stepping back a little and signaling he should do the same. Even with the space between them, Patrick wasn't quite breathing easy.  
  
"Who did this?" Pete asked with a sweeping motion at Patrick. "Who did this to you?"  
  
~  
  
The only relief from the monotony of being HJ was the sports training and even that somehow managed to be completely dull, dozens of other teenagers crowding into a gymnasium, all wearing identical shorts and tank tops. The athleticism of it was precise and calculated, no personality or sense of style. The lesson on boxing promised to be just as dull as all the others, until Pete saw who was leading it.  
  
He hardly listened as Ryan explained the basics, already fantasizing about smashing his nose. The one word he was listening for finally came: volunteer. Pete's hand shot on the air and he waited impatiently until Ryan called him forward.  
  
A fierce grin on his face, Pete joined Ryan in the ring, bringing his fists to his face. Pete was good in a fight and he knew it, even if he had no idea how to box. It couldn’t be that complicated, he figured, just throwing some punches.  
  
He was still grinning when Ryan’s first punch flew, only catching Pete’s attention as it landed squarely on his cheek. “An important element of boxing is blocking your opponent,” Ryan explained to the room. Gritting his teeth, Pete focused on Ryan, determined not to let him do that again. “And follow-through,” he added, left fist slamming into Pete’s jaw.  
  
Pete swung back, full force behind his arm as he aimed for Ryan’s face. He scowled as Ryan ducked, the edge of his knuckles only grazing Ryan’s cheekbone. His next punch hardly landed better, Ryan backing up almost before he threw it. But he had Ryan backing up at least, so Pete pushed forward and kept slugging at him even though he kept missing.  
  
The room couldn’t be silent, but it seemed that way, everything reduced to the two of them there in the ring. Ryan dodged another punch, panting a little as he changed that, telling the room, “It’s important to keep your punches tight so your opponent can’t see them coming.”  
  
Even watching for his punches, Pete couldn’t get his fists up in time to avoid them. He could feel moisture dripping down his face, a bloody nose, but he didn’t care. He just tried to land a blow on Ryan, one solid hit. Ryan’s next punch was too much, Pete falling to the mat from the impact.  
  
Ryan walked away as though it was nothing, still talking to the rest of the HJs. Pete swiped at his nose with the back of his hand, wincing a little. He could taste the blood as he licked his lips, launching himself back to his feet and straight at Ryan, fists flying.  
  
His eyes gleamed as he finally made Ryan bleed. “It don’t mean a thing,” he sung quietly, the words smug. He knew Ryan would understand, swing boy versus ex swing boy.  
  
~  
  
Stopping by Patrick’s between school and an HJ meeting, Pete reclined on the floor and watched while Mikey explained what had caused Pete’s black eye. They already wore their uniforms, but he didn’t care if a little dust from the floor got on his.  
  
Mikey bounced on his heels as he gave everyone a play by play of the fight, using Ray to illustrate it. “Christ, you guys shoulda seen it. Pete was like wham, bam, and kept punching even though Ryan was moving like a snake and avoiding it each time…”  
  
Patrick sighed. “I didn’t ask you to do this,” he told Pete with a harsh edge to his voice.  
  
“So?” Pete asked. “I did it for you anyway. Might as well get something outta this whole HJ shebang besides an ugly uniform.”  
  
Sizing Pete up with a bitter look from over the tops of his glasses, Patrick frowned. “And why are you an HJ anyhow?”  
  
“We didn’t have a choice,” Pete reminded him, exasperated. He’d already been over this with Patrick a couple times, but apparently that wasn’t good enough.  
  
Patrick snorted at his answer. “Mikey didn’t have a choice. What’s your excuse?”  
  
Before Pete had to answer him again, a whistle sounded at the door, the familiar notes to It Don’t Mean a Thing. He couldn’t help feeling a little relieved at the disruption.  
  
Frank popped up to open the door and Gerard came in, hair wild and windblown and a grin on his face. He waved at the guys as he unknotted his scarf and shrugged out of his overcoat, setting it on the floor.  
  
“I’m dying for a smoke,” he lamented despite his broad grin, waiting for Frank to roll one.  
  
Within a minute, Gerard was lighting up and Frank glanced around, “Anyone else?” he asked.  
  
Mikey sighed, leaning against one of the shelves of records. “No thanks. They smell our breath.”  
  
“Are you sure you should be here where we’re playing this music?” Patrick scorned. “They might listen to your ears.”  
  
~  
  
"The guys miss seeing you," Bob said, handing Patrick the thin bag in his hand.  
  
Patrick's eyes lit up briefly as he slid the record from the bag and scanned the label. "What do you mean? They were just over a couple days ago." He limped to the record player, finally letting Bob in the door.  
  
Bob shut the door behind himself, frowning at Patrick. "You haven't left your apartment since you were released from the hospital. I don't mind running to the docks and getting groceries, but you need to go out. At least to the club. Listen to music and see people, get some swing in your life again. If Emil tries anything with you again, I'll kick his ass."  
  
"It's not about that. I'm not scared of him." Bob gave Patrick a look and he shrugged. "Okay, fine, I am, but I'm more scared about the rest of Germany. Have you read the papers you bring to me?" With a swift kick, he knocked over the stack of old newspapers next to the chair.  
  
Bob sighed. "The news won't get any better just because you're staying in."  
  
"And it won't get any better." Patrick held up his hand with its broken fingers, the cuts on them nearly healed. "I can still play, but swing's not gonna save Germany. It's too late."  
  
~  
  
Trudging in the front door, all Pete wanted was to head upstairs, bathe, and go to bed. He tried to slip past the open door of the sitting room undetected, only to have his father call for him.  
  
Pete stepped into the room where his parents and a couple of their friends sat having drinks. "Good evening Doctor, Mrs. Salpeter."  
  
The doctor frowned at his face, still battered and bruised from the fight with Ryan. "I can run and fetch my bag so I can take a closer look at those," he offered.  
  
"Oh, he's in his element," Pete's father answered scornfully. "Being tough, fighting. It's the first time our Peter has managed to do what he wants and not have trouble with the law. But they look so fine in their uniforms."  
  
Trying hard not to lose his temper, Pete excused himself from the room, hurrying away. Halfway up the stairs, he paused and glared at the door to the sitting room. "Bastard," he hissed under his breath and ran the rest of the way to his bedroom.  
  
It was unfair; even when Pete was doing so well, it wasn't enough for his father. He couldn't help it if he'd rather bum around with Mikey than sit at home and study or attend stuffy dinner parties where his parents would try to introduce him to the right sort of people, all of them boring.  
  
Mikey even made being in the HJ exciting and if one of them was a bad influence, it was Pete, not Mikey.  
  
~  
  
There was a knock at the door and Gerard left his books on the table to answer it. No one else was home and neither Mikey nor his mother had mentioned expecting any kind of a delivery.  
  
He blinked, surprised to see Frank standing there when he opened the door. "Um, Mikey's not home," he said weakly.  
  
"So what, I can't come over to see you?" Frank asked. "Or, shit, sorry, are you busy?" He frowned and tugged at his suspenders.  
  
"Oh. Uh. Not- Sort of?" Gerard opened the door wider and let Frank in despite his words. "I've been studying, but I'm ready for a break."  
  
"Why are you hitting the books all the time?" Frank nudged Gerard’s shoulder. "Mikey says that’s why you never go out."  
  
Wrinkling his nose, Gerard sighed. "I hate engineering. It doesn’t make sense, you know? But mama had a hard enough time so we can afford university, and she said Germany needs engineers."  
  
"…damn."  
  
"Yeah, I mean, it wouldn’t be so bad, but it just doesn’t come to me, not unless I spend pretty much all my time studying."  
  
"So what would you have picked?"  
  
Gerard almost blushed. "I…wanted to go to art school. But mama said there wasn’t a career in it."  
  
~  
  
Knowing how stubborn and persistent Pete could be, it didn’t surprise Mikey that the next time the HJ did boxing, he asked Ryan for a rematch. He quelled his misgivings, staying on the sidelines to cheer Pete on again, hoping for a slightly better outcome this time.  
  
Pete looked serious, standing in the ring with his fists held up and elbows tucked close to protect his sides. He waited, letting Ryan throw the first punch and ducking underneath it. As Ryan overcompensated, clearly surprised Pete had avoided his punch, Pete threw his own fist at Ryan.  
  
The room was still, everyone intent on the match. With how Ryan had managed to completely cream Pete the first time, everyone knew that one was or another, this would prove a fight worth watching. Mikey was almost afraid to watch, the smug grin on Pete’s face showing he was already getting cocky. Ryan threw another fist, only to be met by two more from Pete. The first just grazed his shoulder, but the second landed squarely on his chest.  
  
An applause and cheer roared through the room, but Pete’s eyes never left his opponent for a second. Ryan’s fist shot out again, catching Pete in the stomach. They danced around each other, glancing blows landing by turns. Pete hit Ryan in the jaw and Ryan spat blood on the mat, his tongue bitten. Neither was going down.  
  
Mikey was impatient for the match to end, biting his lips as he watched. This time Pete and Ryan seemed evenly matched, or near enough. He had no idea how the fight was going to end, or even if it would. It almost seemed as if they could keep going forever, each getting in a little hit here and there but never knocking the other down.  
  
It had to be a lucky punch, but Pete managed to knock Ryan to the mat. Ryan held his arm out and Pete helped him back up. Mikey milled closer, eager to congratulate Pete. He heard Ryan saying, “You’ve taught me an important lesson about passion and how it can persevere in the end.”  
  
Pete’s gloating aside, Mikey had thought that would be the end of the upheaval the HJ had caused in his life. But then more and more often he noticed Ryan joining them at the required activities, laughing with Pete, jokes neither bothered to share with him.  
  
Most of Mikey’s focus was on not being noticed; when he was at the HJ meetings, he didn’t usually feel like laughing anyhow. But the thrill of knowing there would be a familiar face there in Pete had faded. He still felt alone there.  
  
Every time there was a competition between the HJ, he saw Pete and Ryan at the forefront, winning and congratulating each other, going off without him as they discussed whatever it was they had in common. It was a betrayal of sorts, having Pete go so readily into friendship with someone who had crushed Patrick’s fingers beyond repair.  
  
But mostly it hurt because it felt like Ryan had stolen away one of his best friends, and now Mikey didn’t have a Pete.

Being in the HJ made Mikey feel dirty. He hated questioning everything and everyone, but they worked hard to plant the seed of doubt and maybe it would be better to know for sure.  
  
When one of the SA officers in charge of the HJ meetings he attended took him aside, Mikey was filled with dread. He couldn’t make himself get enthusiastic about any of it, and being singled out in such a way gave him a bad feeling, like they had decided joining wasn’t good enough. He had waited with butterflies in his stomach until the officer explained why Mikey had been detained.  
  
“You had a job before?” the officer asked, not looking up to see Mikey’s nod before continuing, “But what was it you were really doing?”  
  
“Delivering books,” Mikey offered weakly. “For Mr. Harris’ shop.”  
  
“How do you know they were really books?” the officer asked, staring him dead in the eye. “Just something to think about.”  
  
The storefront looked the same as always, the name painted above in elegant script. Pushing away his nervous discomfort, Mikey opened the door and stepped in. Mr. Harris was seated behind his desk, jotting something down in a ledger. He looked up as the bell jingled. "Your brother made it sound like you weren't coming back." He set down the pen, eyeing Mikey speculatively. "I didn't think the Nazis took days off."  
  
Mikey shrugged. "I'm not a very good Nazi."  
  
A loud laugh burst out of Mr. Harris. "I guess not."  
  
"I have some free time, and sometimes I don't show up even when I'm supposed to." Mikey stood awkwardly with his hat in his hand, not sure what else to say.  
  
"There's nothing for you to do today-" Mr. Harris started to explain when the loud ring of the telephone interrupted him. He ran to the back room to answer, leaving Mikey waiting by his desk. The quiet sounds of phone conversation carried to him, as Mikey stood there, idly running his fingers along the desk.  
  
After a couple minutes of awaiting his return, Mikey stepped around to behind the desk. He glanced at the ledger Mr. Harris had been writing in, but he had only read about spies, never tried to be one. Mikey didn’t even know what he was looking for. Flipping back a few pages, the ledger seemed normal to him, as far as he could tell. There were accounts credited, lists of deliveries made and shipments yet to arrive, rows of numbers.  
  
Mikey turned around to look at the books behind the desk. The more rare and valuable books were kept there on shelves where no one could touch them without permission. Even Mikey wasn’t supposed to touch them, but since there was nobody looking, he pulled a familiar-looking book off the shelf. He thought he could remember Mr. Harris wrapping it up for delivery before, but if it was still there then obviously Mikey was mistaken.  
  
He opened the cover, mildly curious just how old the book was. A piece of paper fluttered to the floor as Mikey did so, and he bent to pick it up. There were footsteps approaching, so he shoved the paper in his pocket, shutting the book and settling it back on the shelf before he could get caught.  
  
"It turns out I do have a delivery for you." Mr. Harris reached for the shelf behind the desk, pulling down the book Mikey just touched.  
  
Mikey froze for a moment, sure he was caught.  
  
Without even cracking the cover, Mr. Harris began wrapping it in brown paper and handed it to Mikey before jotting something down quick on a slip of paper. "Here's the address, I think you've been there before," he explained as Mikey took the paper from him.  
  
With a nod, Mikey put his hat back on and started walking. The streets were emptier than he remembered and he made good time. Watching the street names, Mikey stopped when he knew he was getting close. He had to know what had fallen from the book before he went any further.  
  
Mikey fumbled with the package, tucking it under his arm so he could use both hands to unfold the piece of paper. It took a moment to realize what he was looking at, but the truth was right there. The sheet was clearly an identity paper, not Mr. Harris' or anyone else he knew; it had to be a forgery.  
  
Shaken up, Mikey tucked the paper back in his pocket, trying not to think about it, even as it burned a hole in his mind. The distraction caused him to make a couple wrong turns, but when Mikey finally reached the right building, he knew it seemed familiar.  
  
Entering the cramped brick apartment building, Mikey grew more certain that Mr. Harris was right and he had been here before. As he climbed the stairs, sounds echoed down from the rooms, the muffled noise of families in small quarters.  
  
Soft music carried through the door Mikey knocked on, then the sound of footsteps approaching. When the door opened and the music grew louder, Mikey remembered why the place was so familiar.  
  
"Mikey, hi," Gabe said, lingering in the doorway. "Is that the book Shawn was sending over?" His eyes lit up.  
  
Mikey nodded mutely, handing it over. He stared at Gabe, who seemed nice and normal enough, but all he saw was a person, not a reason Gabe would be getting that delivery. He would never have guessed Gabe was breaking the law, any more than he would have guessed it of Mr. Harris.  
  
"Have a nice day," he said as he realized Gabe was giving him a funny look, and he turned to go before Gabe could question him.  
  
Crossing the bridge to the other side of the river, Mikey stopped to lean against the railing. He knew what he was supposed to do, but Mr. Harris had always been a good boss; his shop couldn't really earn that much, but still he managed to find work for both Mikey and his brother because their family needed the money.  
  
He pulled the damning paper from his pocket, glaring at it. He was better off not knowing and hadn't asked for this, any of it. All Mikey wanted was to get away from having to decide what he would do now that he knew about Shawn. Lips quivering, Mikey furiously ripped up the paper, tossing it into the water. He blinked back frustrated tears as the shreds of paper fluttered down, some catching in the wind and floating back around his ankles.  
  
Even after the last shred had flown away, Mikey stood there, staring blankly at the water. Getting rid of the evidence didn't change what he knew, and he still could report Mr. Harris, was required to.  
  
A hand grabbed his shoulder, a gruff voice going "Hey, swing boy!" Mikey jumped, startled as Pete burst into laughter. "Gotcha!"  
  
He scowled, tugging away. "Cut that out. You're such a jerk."  
  
"Aw, come on, Mikey, I was just having fun. ...I was thinking maybe you'd want to go for a ride." Pete waited expectantly for a reaction, but Mikey was too preoccupied to care. "Ride what, you ask?" He grabbed Mikey by the elbow, turning him around to reveal a shiny black bicycle. "They just gave it to me for nothing!" he enthused, darting up to it to jingle the bell.  
  
"What do you want, Pete?" Mikey asked point-blank. His frustration was too much to be patient and having Pete around was no longer either comforting or a distraction, only a sharp reminder of what he was supposed to do with the knowledge he had just gained.  
  
"Nothing. Christ, I just wanted to talk, is that so weird?" Pete said defensively, giving Mikey a sharp look. It seemed almost guilty, but Mikey wasn't sure if he was just projecting his own guilt onto Pete.  
  
"You just- Did they tell you to talk to me?" Mikey exploded. "Is that what they told you to do, talk to me?"  
  
Pete's face darkened. "What the fuck are you on about? Fuck you. You're getting paranoid like Patrick and we all saw how that worked out for him."  
  
~  
  
Mikey was a ball of nerves, sitting in his desk waiting to be called on. He listened and watched as others in the classroom were called upon, each young man standing and reporting anything subversive he had observed, wondering how it was possible everyone else had seen or heard something worth mentioning. It was a big city, but if everyone was seeing that much subversion, there had to be a reason for it. If the Nazis were such a good thing, so many people wouldn’t go against their better order.  
  
But the list grew longer and longer as the young men stood and complained about things they had read or seen or heard in the past week. Most of their reports were innocent enough, and Mikey burned inside, feeling guilty because he knew his own observations that week were of a much more grievous sort.  
  
When they called on Pete, Mikey had a moment of hoping someone else would have nothing to report. Pete got to his feet, eyes at the front of the room. "I've heard my father speaking out against the fuhrer. He's a coward so it's just talk." Mikey tried not to gape, thrown for a loop.  
  
He felt as though his own name had been called out. Part of that was the strong suspicion he would be the only one reporting nothing subversive, but it was also because that was family. If people would report their own family, no one was safe. Mikey wished for a fire, an air raid, anything to stop the meeting before his name was called.  
  
There was no reason not to report Mr. Harris. Sure, he had given Mikey and Gerard jobs when they needed them, but he was breaking a law, and not a little one. There was no chance there was a good explanation for why he was passing forged identity papers in books at his shop. He was running serious risks and must have known the danger. Mikey was doing this for his family, that was all.  
  
No natural disasters manifested; the SA officer continued calmly calling names and writing down what the young men had to report. Mikey stood tensely as his own name was called. “I have nothing to report,” he mumbled, sitting down without looking at anyone. He couldn’t do that to someone, he didn’t care if it really did make him a bad Nazi.  
  
~  
  
"So where's Pete tonight?" Frank asked. Mikey shrugged glumly, staring at the table. Patrick snorted. "He probably had to stay late to help the Nazis." Every time the door opened, Mikey's eyes darted to it expectantly, only to return to the table disappointed. The others didn’t say anything about Pete, clearly able to see how bad Mikey felt.  
  
Patrick was clearly nervous, hiding it behind his bad mood. It was almost time for him to hit the stage, and still Pete hadn’t arrived. Mikey knew Pete hadn’t forgotten it was his big night, so he had no idea where Pete could have been.  
  
An assortment of SA officers sat at the table nearest them, their loud jokes hard to ignore. It was even harder not to glare at them for talking over such good music, but SA officers were best left alone and un-aggravated. Even for an HJ, they could make life very difficult.  
  
Patrick’s fingers were twitching at his case when Pete finally showed up. Mikey was relieved he at least had come alone. If Ryan had tagged along, Mikey suspected there would have been blows. “I didn’t miss the big moment, did I?” he asked as he sat down.  
  
“Just about,” Patrick answered and he opened his case, finally taking out his guitar again. It was already tuned; he’d checked several times while they waited. Still, he checked it once more, plucking the strings and nodding with satisfaction. The singer from the house band introduced their band with a grand voice and it was show time.  
  
"I'll sit this one out," Bob told the guys, rubbing his wrists as Patrick and Ray got to their feet. They all watched proudly as Patrick got back onstage. The drummer from the house band took Bob's spot, launching them into one of the less taboo swing songs.  
  
Even with only two working fingers, Patrick pulled off the solo, playing furiously and with the intensity he always had. "He looks like his old self," Gerard beamed, applauding as the solo ended.  
  
Bob frowned and shrugged. "He's not happy yet, says he's gotta figure out ascending chords again. He just about smashed his guitar I think, he was so fed up."  
  
"Still." Gerard shrugged back. "He sounds great."  
  
They were all sitting back and enjoying the music, when the SA officers got loud again. They waved the club owner over, and it was impossible not to overhear them, though Mikey was trying to focus on Patrick and the band.  
  
“We want to hear a German song,” one of them requested loudly. “Have the band play something German.”  
  
The club owner nodded and made his way to the stage. He waited until the band finished their song before catching Patrick’s attention. “They want to hear a German song.”  
  
Patrick scoffed. “Tell them we play what we want to play.”  
  
“You play what I tell you to play. I am telling you to play a German song.” The club owner seemed unamused, frowning sternly at Patrick.  
  
“Play it yourself,” Patrick countered sharply, getting to his feet. He made his way slowly across the hall, everyone hushed as they watched, well aware the band had fallen silent. Passing the table where his friends sat, Patrick stopped at the table where the SA officers sat.  
  
Though drunk enough to be genial, the SA officers seemed surprised by Patrick’s vehemence. “We only want to hear one good German song.”  
  
“There are no good German songs. Only Nazi songs.” With those tight words, Patrick turned and began putting his guitar away.  
  
The rest of the guys looked at each other uncomfortably. Bob was the first to follow suit, tugging on his overcoat and getting to his feet. But slowly, one by one, the others also got ready to go, slamming the rest of their drinks and pushing their chairs back from the table.  
  
Pete was the last one back on his feet, a disgruntled look on his face. It was early to go back home, but swing kid solidarity was important. Mikey would rather support Patrick in this than stay, especially at a place that was so concerned with meeting the approval of the Nazis at any cost. The house band wasn’t nearly as good as Patrick’s.  
  
Out on the street, they stood huddled together. Pete scowled at Patrick. “What was that all about? You couldn’t play one goddamn song?” huffing, he pointed out, “We were having a good time.”  
  
“One song?” Patrick asked, turning on Pete with the temper he’d been holding back all night. “It starts with one song, and then next thing you know, we’re killing Austrians, killing innocent people, and no one is telling them it’s wrong. At least I know who I am. I didn’t sell out to them.”  
  
“Oh, so I sold out?” Pete asked, glaring. “Maybe you just don’t like the Nazis because they won’t accept you. You belong with the cripples and the retards, but I just bet if they’d have you, you’d be lining up.”  
  
Mikey’s jaw dropped and he stepped between them, expecting fists to fly any moment. “Christ, Pete. You’re turning into a fucking Nazi!”  
  
“Well so what if I am?” Pete swaggered there, and Mikey turned around, walking away before he had a chance to do something he might regret. He’d never wanted to punch Pete so bad in his entire life. Mikey had heard people say things like that, but never one of his friends and not to Patrick. Walking did nothing to dispel his anger, so finally Mikey stopped, turning and kicking the side of the building he had been passing, kicking over and over until his toes hurt, before finally walking again.  
  
~  
  
The apartment was dark when Patrick got home, but he only turned on the light in the bathroom, running water in the tub. Following his old rituals, Patrick moved back to the bedroom, setting his guitar case next to the bed and carefully began to undress. He opened the closet door, hanging his jacket next to his trousers. He was too numb to think, just moving on muscle memory as he unknotted his tie and placed it in a drawer.  
  
Patrick slowly crossed the room, the twinges of pain from the HJ's attack gone. He pulled a folio from the shelf, sliding a record from its sleeve with the care most people reserve for precious jewels. As he went to place the record on the record player, Patrick realized it was the one Pete had scratched. He hurled it across the room and listened to it shatter on the bathroom floor.  
  
Selecting another album, Patrick made his way back to the bathroom. The tub was full and he turned off the tap before carefully lowering himself into the hot water. His glasses fogged and he nearly slipped as his bad leg touched down, but somehow Patrick managed to keep his fedora still on and dry. Count Basie's soulful music carried from the other room, but Patrick wasn't listening anymore. It seemed like none of Germany was.  
  
Swing music had once filled Patrick with hope, the thought that maybe music could change people. But though his countrymen were definitely changing, it was for the worse and not the better, swing music, all music, brushed to the wayside as they strove to be this ideal he had so many doubts of. A cynic might say his doubts were natural as someone who could never fit them, what with his handicap. Patrick preferred to think it was because he didn’t let the propaganda cloud his mind. He knew plenty of people who did not fit the fuhrer’s image of Germany who were intelligent and talented and physically capable.  
  
All he had were his music and his friends, and it seemed the Nazis had stolen both from him. Even his efforts to relearn guitar with fewer fingers, painful as they were, did not keep the Nazis from taking his music, requesting to hear him play “good German songs” as though they cared what they listened to. All they cared about was control, but there was one thing they could not control.  
  
Picking up his straight razor, Patrick deliberately and slowly opened the blade. It was sharp enough. He ran the blade along one wrist, then switched hands and ran it along the other. Blood spread throughout the water, turning it red and he dropped the razor over the side of the tub, drops of blood falling on it and the broken pieces of record. He couldn't save Germany, but he didn't have to keep watching what it would become.  
  
~  
  
Mikey tugged at his narrow black tie uncomfortably, not sure if the pain in his throat was a lump from holding back tears or just from knotting the tie too tight. He stared at the dark wood of the coffin, still not ready to accept it.  
  
The open lid showed Patrick inside, looking almost like someone else without his usual fedora on. It had been years since anyone had seen him without a hat; even in the hospital, Patrick had managed to keep his fedora.  
  
He didn't want to look, but Mikey felt drawn to the coffin and the gaping hole it made. He shuffled to the front of the church, getting a better look inside but still leaning away, some irrational part of him fearing he'd be sucked into the casket and buried too.  
  
Patrick's arms laid at his sides so none of his scars were visible, and Mikey found himself wishing he had his own fedora with so he could leave it with Patrick and restore a little of his dignity. Feeling a hand on his back, Mikey turned to see Frank behind him, hat clutched to his chest. He stared morosely into the coffin, setting the hat on Patrick before practically running back to his pew.  
  
Mikey felt frozen in place, but he forced himself to move back and sit down. Bob was sitting a little ways down from him, hands twisting around the brim of one of Patrick's fedoras. After a moment watching him out of the corner of his eye, Mikey slid down so he was next to Bob and put a hand on his shoulder. "His family didn't want him buried wearing it," Bob whispered, desolate. He teared up, swiping at his eyes with a handkerchief already crumpled and stained from use.  
  
The chapel filled with those who knew Patrick, a bizarre mix of his family and the swing kids he had devoted his life to. Gerard ducked into the pew bare minutes before the service was scheduled to begin, having left university for what was left of his school day. Everyone scooted down a little, somehow managing to make enough room for him next to Mikey.  
  
The staid organ music during the service was depressing, so unlike the music Patrick had loved that it just formed another reminder that Patrick wasn't going to make his own music ever again. The somber hymns seemed strange and unfitting, and the sermon given was carefully written, almost pretending they didn’t all know Patrick had killed himself.  
  
Mikey looked around the room, seeing a lot of familiar faces. But the one face he had expected to see wasn't there. Even when the service ended and the pallbearers shut Patrick's coffin and carried it out, there was no sign of Pete.  
  
They all gathered around the gravesite and as he watched the coffin get lowered into the earth, Mikey couldn't help replaying everything that had happened in the past few months. He'd known Patrick was in a bad way, but he had no idea that it had gotten this bad. It was so easy to get preoccupied with balancing his own life, HJ by day and swing kid by night, that Mikey hadn't really been thinking about Patrick.  
  
He steeled himself, unwilling to cry. Staring at the grave didn't help, so Mikey finally averted his eyes, looking instead at the crowd gathered with him. When Mikey's eyes first hit the uniform across from him, he glossed over it, only to double back, shocked. Knowing how Patrick felt, surely no one would dare show up at his funeral in anything associated with the Nazis.  
  
But his eyes were right the first time, and Mikey found himself staring at Pete. Everyone else wore proper black suits or dresses, but Pete seemed completely untroubled to be there in the khaki of his HJ uniform. He didn't even seem upset about Patrick's death, even though earlier the same night he died, Pete had fought with Patrick and not reconciled.  
  
Mikey couldn’t move his eyes off Pete the whole time he stood there, watching the unrepentant look on his face and unable to say anything. He didn’t even try approaching Pete, just watched from the other side of the grave until Pete turned and left.  
  
Pete hadn't stayed long, turning to leave long before the rest of the funeral-goers dispersed. Even after he was gone, Mikey couldn’t help looking at the tree he’d stood beside.  
  
~  
  
Gerard and Mikey made their way home together, somehow. Mikey was so caught in his own thoughts, he hardly noticed, even when they climbed the steps to their apartment. He went into his room and shut the door without even a word to Gerard.  
  
Face crumpling as repressed emotions finally hit, Mikey tugged off his tie and threw it in the corner, hating his funeral garb. Even watching as Patrick was buried didn't make it any easier to believe or to quit blaming himself.  
  
During that last fight, Pete had pushed Patrick too far; hell, he'd pushed Mikey too far. It seemed plain to him that fight had played a part in Patrick killing himself, and for all that Pete could be an ass before, the things he said were things he never would have thought before he joined the HJ, nevermind saying them.  
  
Before the HJ, everything had seemed much simpler. It was easier to ignore the war and the politics when the biggest thing in their lives was music. And the reason that had changed was Mikey. When they stole the radio, if Mikey had just been able to run a little bit faster then they would have gotten away with it and neither of them would have had to join the HJ.  
  
Maybe Patrick was right. Not for killing himself; Mikey shuddered at the thought. But right to care, right in everything he'd said about how horrible the Nazis were. With how loyal of a Nazi Pete had become... It was painful to admit, but good intentions or not, they had killed the compassion Pete held, even for his friends.  
  
This new Pete was much harsher, his smart remarks now having a cruel edge to them. Under the uniform, he still looked like the old Pete, especially when he smiled. But this Pete was so different it hurt, a tight pain in Mikey's chest. He'd made this Pete, but Mikey didn't want him. He wanted the old Pete back, the one who had laughed and took the blame when Mikey broke his mother's vase in the living room trying out a new dance step, the Pete who was so determined to learn all the fancy American swing steps and figure out how to whip his partner around in the air that he kept dropping Mikey on his elbow for two weeks straight. The Pete who always managed to make Mikey laugh. The Pete Mikey hadn't seen in months.  
  
It would almost have been easier if Pete had died; at least then Mikey wouldn't have to constantly see this Pete he didn't even like, who only reminded him of the Pete he cared about.  
  
Sitting there, curled up, Mikey didn't even notice as it got dark and the light coming from his window slowly faded. He heard his mother call him to the table for supper, but Mikey didn't stir. He was so numb he couldn't imagine being hungry; his head was full of the shock at Patrick's death and, as always, full of Pete. She called for him again and again, sounding more and more exasperated before giving up.  
  
The sounds of forks and knives scraping against plates carried to him and Mikey's stomach turned. The only reason he didn't run for the toilet and retch up his stomach contents was his stomach being completely empty, all appetite long gone. Even still, he gagged. All Mikey could think was that there was nothing he could do. Patrick would never eat again, and he couldn't change that. Pete-  
  
Pete wasn't Pete anymore, and maybe that wouldn't hurt so bad if Pete had been anyone else to begin with. He couldn't help dwelling on the change, the way Pete once had been the brightest spot in the world, and now wore an HJ uniform to the burial of his most Nazi-hating friend, not even attending the funeral. Mikey briefly found himself wondering if Pete would even bother coming to his funeral, but he pushed the thought away. He didn't know if he wanted the answer to be yes or no in the first place.  
  
As caught up as he was in his own head, Mikey didn't notice the door open and shut, even with the moment of golden brightness from the hallway light. He started when a hand touched his shoulder, looking up at Gerard with an agonized expression. "How did you-" Mikey blinked hard, struggling with his question. He didn't need to ask it to know what he'd figured out anyhow, he just wished he was wrong. Flinging himself into Gerard's arms, Mikey began to sob.  
  
Gerard patted his shoulder helplessly, wetness spreading across his shirt as hot tears burst from Mikey's eyes. It was all so wrong; not even unfair, it was just wrong, completely not-right in every way. As the thought rang through Mikey's head, he only sobbed harder, fingers curling tight around his brother's chest.  
  
It was exhausting, crying so hard. Mikey could only keep it up for so long before finally his tears calmed and he was just sniffling, still clinging to his brother with desperation and that futile hope a little brother always had that his older brother could fix everything.  
  
His head still rested on Gerard's shoulder as he said, "I think I'm in love." The words made him want to vomit, even worse when he said them aloud, but Mikey couldn't vomit up his love. He was stuck with it, heavy as it weighed inside him. "With Pete," Mikey whispered sadly, almost to himself.  
  
"Oh, Mikey." If it had been anyone else sounding so sympathetic, Mikey would have bristled. As it was, he just buried his face deeper in Gerard's shirt as he began to cry again, dry sobs racking his body. Saying it aloud made it all the more terrible and undeniable.  
  
Mikey finally quiets again, swiping at his eyes and his nose with the back of his hand. "How did you and Frank figure things out?" he asked quietly, voice sounding unsteady and unused to speaking anymore.  
  
Gerard tensed. "What do you mean?" he asked, voice high and nervous as he pushed Mikey away.  
  
Blinking at him, Mikey took off his glasses and wiped them clean. As he settled his glasses back on his nose, he gave Gerard a look. "You and Frank. How did you tell him?"  
  
Burning red, Gerard stuttered, flabbergasted. "What? I don't-" Mikey just kept staring down his nose, unblinking, until Gerard's protests ceased. "I. I couldn’t say anything to him," he finally admitted nervously, fidgeting all the while. His fingers twisted at his necktie as he offered an awkward smile to Mikey. "He's something else. But, I'm sorry Mikey, I don't think I can help you figure out things with Pete."  
  
“I know,” he whispered finally, clinging to Gerard again. “Nobody can.”  
  
~  
  
On the weekends, Gerard usually tried to help out around the house. He wasn't great at it, but with Mikey so busy and their mother working at the factory, every bit helped. If the pictures were a little crooked after he dusted and the rug was a little askew, at least it was clean.  
  
His favorite part was dusting all her knickknacks in the living room cluttering little shelves on every wall. A lot of the knickknacks were memories of happier times and Gerard was learning to appreciate the memories, as painfully different as they were. He found himself humming familiar songs as he worked, inadvertently singing snatches of them to himself.  
  
Gerard jumped as a hand touched his shoulder, yelping as he dropped a figurine. "It's me," Frank reassured him. "Mikey let me in."  
  
Red-faced, Gerard bent to pick up the pieces of the shattered porcelain figure, Frank helping. "Sorry, I didn't think you were coming till later."  
  
Frank shrugged. "I wasn't busy so I came early. You know me, I always like spending more time with you, even if you're working on something."  
  
Gerard was quiet, fishing porcelain chips from under the couch. They moved to the kitchen to toss them in the rubbish bin and Gerard paused, noticing a bright red drop of blood welling on one of Frank's fingertips. He tugged Frank's hand to his mouth, sucking away the blood so he could get a good look at the cut.  
  
"I'll be fine," Frank excused it, but he followed obediently when Gerard insisted on leading him to the bathroom. The medicine cabinet was nearly empty, but he sat Frank down on the toilet seat as he found a half-empty tube of ointment and a bandage. He knelt down in front of Frank looking at the cut again in the light before getting it bandaged, blushing again when he realized Frank was staring at him.  
"What?" he asked, still holding Frank's hand.  
  
"Do you remember the first time we saw each other at the record shop?" Frank asked. He still hadn’t blinked and Gerard was fixed in place by his eyes, staring back without even meaning to.  
  
Gerard swallowed, his mouth suddenly, painfully dry. "Yeah?"  
  
"Remember how I said I'd let you know if I found a singer I could get excited about?" Gerard nodded and Frank squeezed his hand. "I found one."  
  
"Really?"  
  
When Gerard's face grew even redder, Frank touched his cheek. "Yeah, really."  
  
~  
  
Pete hated family dinners. The awkward silence as they stared across the table at one another was even worse than the stilted and formal conversation of his parents’ dinner parties. Though they kept the meals short, they always seemed to drag on for hours, souring the rest of the night.  
  
The only sound was the creak of knives scraping along plates and forks trying to catch the last few peas off the plate. There were no dishes to pass holding a second portion of potatoes or a bit of salad; unless one of them had an urge to ask about the others’ day, there was nothing to say and Pete, for one, did not care. He hoped that his father had bad days, if only to make up for how bad Pete had felt because of him. The hurt might not have stayed on the surface, but it wasn’t something he could forget.  
  
There was a knock at the door, and his father looked up, a puzzled look on his face. “We’re not expecting anyone, are we?” he asked. When his wife shook her head, he turned to Pete. “Are you?”  
  
Pete shook his head too, just as surprised at the break from their monotonous routine. His father pushed his chair back from the table, heading to the front hall to answer the door. After a moment, Pete followed, curious.  
  
He hung back in the shadows as his father unbolted the door. Several Gestapo officers stepped into the house, and Pete’s eyes widened at the sight. Gestapo officers were not an unfamiliar sight to him, but never in his own home.  
  
“Peter Wentz?” one of them asked. “Peter Wentz the second?” he clarified, quickly.  
  
“Yes?” his father answered, glancing from face to face in confusion. Pete had never seen his father look scared before, but now he did.  
  
“You need to come with us,” the officer said, taking his arm firmly.  
  
Pete’s father turned towards the dining room. “Right this moment? But, my family- We’re in the middle of dinner. Can’t it wait?” His voice almost seemed desperate.  
  
“It won’t be long,” the Gestapo officer assured him, grip visibly tightening. “We just need to ask a few questions.” It was what they always said, as everyone knew. And Pete had heard stories, from Mikey and from others – it was never just a few questions. Not with the Gestapo.  
  
The other officers glanced at the dining room Pete’s father had indicated, and one of them noticed Pete there by the door, offering a heil. “Good work.”  
  
~  
  
Mikey came home to a flustered Gerard, who led him to the living room. As they walked, Mikey shot Gerard a confused look. “He just showed up,” Gerard whispered. He shrugged and opened the door, showing Pete sitting in one of the armchairs. Mikey tried to back away, but Gerard wouldn’t let him. “I’ll just leave you two to talk,” he said, excusing himself as Mikey awkwardly shuffled into the room. “I have to go study.” Mikey shot him a desperate look, not wanting to be left alone, but it was too late.  
  
“How’ve you been?” he asked uncomfortably, sitting across from Pete. They hadn’t really talked since the night Patrick killed himself, a fact that weighed heavy on the room. Mikey glanced around, not quite looking at Pete. The living room might usually have been familiar territory, but on this occasion it was so fraught with tension it seemed someplace unknown.  
  
Pete pulled his jackknife out, fiddling with the blade. Though he had been the one to seek Mikey out, he seemed to dread being there even more than Mikey dreaded him being there. “Good,” he answered finally, “I’ve been good.”  
  
Mikey sighed, looking at him. “You haven’t been sleeping again,” he pointed out, noticing the dark circles under Pete’s eyes.  
  
“So what?” Pete spat out. “Who the fuck cares if I sleep enough. I still do what I’m supposed to.” He scowled and Mikey grimaced, unable to take back his words and undo the mood swing.  
  
“So I care, you ass,” he fired back instead. “We used to be friends, what happened to that?”  
  
Pete shrugged. “I can’t figure that out…” He sighed and put away his jackknife. “So why isn’t Gerard in the SA or anything? I bet he’d be good at it.”  
  
“I don’t want my brother to be a part of that bullshit,” Mikey answered, disgusted. “Christ, like one Nazi in the family’s not enough. I’ve seen what they do to people and if there’s any way he can get out of it, I’m not letting him join.”  
  
“What’s so bad about Nazis?” Pete asked, getting to his feet. “Sure, the uniform takes some getting used to, but it’s not so bad. Everyone wants you to like them. People just let us do what we want, give us stuff free, how is that a bad thing?”  
  
Mikey bit his lip to keep from interrupting Pete, but when Pete finally fell silent, he could hold his words in no longer. “They want us to report our own families! They’re evil! They killed Patrick, they’ll kill all of us.”  
  
“What?” Pete recoiled. “Why did you say that? How could you even say something like that, do you want me to report y-” He cut himself off, staring at Mikey, horror in his eyes. Mikey couldn’t say anything, staring back just as horrified. After a long moment of their mutual stunned silence, Pete turned and ran out the door, leaving Mikey staring after him.  
  
~  
  
When they told him it was a great honor being chosen, Mikey didn't feel honored so much as he felt stuck, unable to say no. He nodded, listening to the familiar-sounding instructions. It was easy enough, going through the motions of heiling before they handed him a stack of parcels and Mikey knew how to be a delivery boy even if it hadn't been for the Nazis before.  
  
Mikey glanced at the addresses and started with the nearest, heading along the river at a comfortable pace. He didn't bother wondering what he was delivering; it didn't matter. His shoelace came untied, and the packages clattered awkwardly as he set them down, kneeling on the pavement to retie the boot.  
  
The neighborhood seemed eerily still, so he started moving faster when he got back to his feet, not wanting to linger. The sky had gone dark and oppressive, but at least it wasn't raining. They only gave him three packages to start with, but if all the neighborhoods felt like this then he didn't want to be out on the streets.  
  
Mikey slowed down again as the houses got smaller and closer together, checking the street numbers more often. He had made deliveries to this neighborhood before, with Mr. Harris, and he knew he was getting close.  
  
The brick building was dirty, covered in the faded marks of paint that had been scrubbed away. Approaching the door, Mikey stood straighter and rapped on it with his knuckles. A little girl in pigtails opened the door, her dress as faded as the bricks of her house.  
  
"Give this to your mother," he said, holding out the box.  
  
A woman bustled into the entryway, shooting a scared look at him as she pushed the girl behind herself. "Do you have news of my husband?" she asked, voice shaking. "What have you done with my husband?" Her hands twisted a dishrag fretfully as she begged for something he didn't know the answer to.  
  
"Take it," he said as firmly as he could. "Take it, it's for you," Mikey repeated as she stared at him uncomprehendingly, shoving the box in the woman's hands. He couldn't answer for the actions of the Nazis, and knowing the little girl's father had been taken just like his own made it harder to do the job he had been given.  
  
Rather than face it, Mikey turned and began walking away before the woman could open the package. As he reached the main street, a shriek broke the air behind him, followed by wailing.  
  
Mikey walked faster, unwilling to look back or even stop until he was by the river again. It was once a popular walking path, but now it was nearly bare, the benches all empty. The woman's scream was still echoing in Mikey's mind; he couldn't go further until he knew what he was delivering that could inspire such a heart-wrenching sound. Her anguish chilled him to his bones.  
  
A breeze swept past as Mikey sat down on the nearest bench, fingers not quite shaking. He fumbled at the twine knotted around one of the parcels before giving up and pulling out his jackknife. Slicing through the rough string, Mikey pushed back the paper. The box under it was perhaps the size of a cigar box, a fine wood with a swastika painted in the center of the lid.  
  
Mikey glanced around, making sure he was still alone, then flipped open the lid. The wind stirred again, blowing away some of the fine pale dust inside. The underside of the lid said Traitor in big letters and as Mikey ran his finger through the dust in the box, his fingers hit something. Picking it up between two fingers, Mikey held up what he had found, not wanting to believe it. The simple gold wedding band was unmistakable, and he jumped to his feet, dumping the rest of the ashes on the ground.  
  
He ran. He left the third box on the ground beside the bench and sprinted as fast as he could, not caring or noticing when he dropped the ring. He only stopped when his heart was pounding so hard it seemed his chest was about to explode and he couldn't keep running anymore. The sky had grown darker and it was starting to rain.  
  
There was no one he could talk to, not Pete, not his brother. There was only one person who Mikey could think of that he might be able to talk to without fearing he would be a disappointment. Swiping at the tears he hadn't realized were falling, Mikey made his way to the bridge. He moved fast, still hoping he could outrun the memory of what he had seen. He hadn't succeeded, even by the time he reached the run-down apartment building and made his way up the narrow staircase once more.  
  
Something was different; it was quiet, even inside, this time. Mikey pounded on the door nonetheless. "Gabe! Gabe, please." He kept knocking even after hope the door would open had passed. Mikey didn't want to give up because he had nowhere else to go.  
  
Finally, unexpectedly, Gabe opened the door a crack. "Mikey? What is it?" His eyes darted around and he frowned at the uniform Mikey wore.  
  
"I- Please, I need to talk," Mikey begged, rain dripping onto the floor around him. Gabe didn't move and Mikey glanced around nervously before shaking his head. "Please. Inside, I can talk to you there."  
  
Reluctantly, Gabe opened the door and Mikey entered his apartment. It was small and cluttered, and through an open door Mikey saw a bed with a suitcase open on top, half-packed. "I don't have much time," Gabe prompted anxiously, fetching a towel from another room and handing it to Mikey.  
  
He took it gratefully, running his fingers through his hair, grimacing at the gritty feeling still on his fingertips. Taking off his glasses, he dried them on the towel, wrapping it around himself after and shivering. "I deliver their ashes." Vision still blurred, Mikey looked up and met Gabe's eyes, getting no reaction yet. "They- And I take the boxes of ashes to their families, people who were taken just like my papa."  
  
He choked up on the last part and Gabe put his arms around Mikey, who sagged against his shoulder, sobbing. After a few minutes, Mikey quieted again, sniffling as he pulled away, glasses wet again.  
  
"But... They deserved it, right?" he asked as he dried them again. "They must have done something wrong."  
  
Staring him dead in the eye, Gabe asked, "And what about your father? Did he deserve it?" He raised his eyebrows.  
  
"You don't know anything about my father!" Mikey glared fiercely through the remnants of tears. It was all too much for him to think about.  
  
"Okay, fair enough," Gabe shrugged. "I never met him. But Victoria, my wife, studied under him at the conservatory. She always said he was nice, a gentleman who had good intentions."  
  
"So?"  
  
"Why was he taken?" At Mikey's silence, Gabe answered himself. "When all the Jewish musicians and instructors were kicked out, your father was one of the few at the conservatory to defend their right to be there."  
  
"But what if- Maybe they cheated, maybe they stole other people's compositions," Mikey suggested stubbornly.  
  
Gabe sighed and shook his head. "All they did was be Jewish. Hell, the only way I've stayed here so long is I took my wife's name." Mikey gave him a weird look. "Yes, I'm Jewish. And I've got to hurry..." He turned away to rifle through a desk. "I found this, a letter from your father to my wife. You should read it."  
  
Mikey took the outstretched envelope and pressed his lips together, glancing at Gabe before he tugged out the folded pages.  
  
"The second page," Gabe prompted and Mikey obliged. _Every day I watch my boys grow stronger together. When one falls down, the other helps him up. It seems to me that all men should be like that. They're both so curious, Gerard asking endless questions and Mikey watching until you'd think his eyes would burn out. I just hope they learn one thing from me: how to be good men. They have already taught this to me._  
  
Partway through, Mikey's vision blurred with tears again, but he kept reading. "Thank you," he mumbled, still choked up. "I- Thank you." He folded the letter, tucking it in his pocket. He hugged Gabe hard.  
  
"You're a good fella." Gabe patted his back. "Now please, I have to go, quickly."  
  
~  
  
Mikey felt like his whole body was tingling, almost vibrating with anticipation. He dressed with care, tugging his suspenders over his shoulders and adjusting his tie just so with a glance in the mirror. There was nothing he could do about his regulation short hair, but he stretched to snag his fedora from atop the armoire.  
  
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Mikey brushed the dust from a hat he'd not worn in far too long. On his feet again and staring in the mirror, Mikey donned the hat deliberately, tugging the brim low on his forehead. The door opened and Gerard stepped into the room. "Mikey, have you seen-" He blinked with surprise. "Are you coming tonight?"  
  
"You have to stay home," Mikey ignored the question. "Mama can't have two sons who are delinquents."  
  
Gerard shook his head, biting his lip. "I have to be there."  
  
With a frown and a stern look, Mikey handed his brother the envelope from Gabe. "You shouldn't go, there will be a raid tonight." He paused, hand brushing against Gerard's. "Papa did love us, you know."  
  
Gerard read the letter, scanning it rapidly and nodding. "If you're going, I'm going. Besides, people are counting on me to be there."  
  
~  
  
Despite everyone who had joined the HJ, the SA, and the army, not to mention all the people taken away to the work camps, there were still a couple dozen people at the dance hall. Frank practically leapt into Gerard's arms when he appeared and Mikey tried not to watch as their mouths met hungrily. "Wish me luck," Gerard ordered as he feebly pushed Frank away.  
  
"Aren't kisses for luck?" Frank challenged him with a fierce look, arms still around Gerard. At Gerard's nod, Frank kissed him again and Gerard's arms came up, knocking Frank's hat to the floor as one hand cupped the back of his neck.  
  
Finally they parted, Frank looking smug as he scooped up his hat, Gerard giving Mikey a proud, apologetic look. Mikey blinked as instead of moving to a table or the dance floor, Gerard continued to the front of the room, climbing onto the stage.  
  
He stepped up to the microphone, fidgeting nervously and flashing a smile at his friends. Before he had a chance to get any more nervous than he looked, Bob started on the drums, the band kicking in. Frank danced near the foot of the stage, catcalling as Gerard grabbed into the micstand and began to sing.  
  
The song started slow and Mikey danced alone; he didn't want to dance with anyone but Pete. At first it felt awkward and he stumbled, certain everyone was staring. But as the song continued and his brother's voice rang through the dance hall, he danced faster, switching to a double-step and kicking his feet in the air like it was the end of the world and all that mattered was he kept dancing.  
  
The floor was in a frenzy, packed with every free swing kid anybody knew, all dancing, but none so intensely as Mikey. With all the noise and movement, Mikey didn't notice the HJ raid had begun until one of them grabbed his arm. He shook off the hand, swinging an arm at the soldier-to-be. At least his own time with the HJ had taught Mikey how they fight.  
  
He shot a worried look at the stage, but his brother had Frank at his side, brandishing a hook-handled umbrella. Mikey ran to the aid of one of the girls. An HJ was dragging her away by her hair, but a couple blows and a really well-landed kick had him dropping her. She scrambled back to her feet and ran off while Mikey moved onto another scuffle. He craned his neck, watching the uniforms for familiar faces.  
  
Ryan's face lit up with a smug, malicious smile as his eyes landed on Mikey. He pushed his way past others, stopping beside him. "So this is the jive joint where traitors jitterbug?" he asked.  
  
Ignoring his words, Mikey whirled, throwing a punch with his full weight and momentum behind it. He didn't bother telling Ryan that was for Pete, just shook out his fist as he walked away, leaving Ryan cradling a broken nose.  
  
Even though it was the only person Mikey was really looking for, he had yet to see Pete. Part of Mikey hoped that meant Pete had a change of heart and hadn't come, but he didn't really believe it.  
  
Fighting the HJ was hard; there were so many smaller fights going on it was easy to hit the wrong person or get hit by someone in another fight. After taking a few hard hits from the batons, Mikey's chest hurt and he decided to get a weapon of his own.  
  
He ducked under arms and between knots of people, making his way to the bar. As he stretched to snag one of the heavier-looking bottles, a baton came down on his wrist. Mikey winced, pulling his hand back and turning towards his attacker. His eyes widened as he realized it was Pete, and Pete recognized him.  
  
For a moment it seemed like Pete would back down, but he just raised the baton again, clubbing Mikey on the shoulders. As he swung a third time, Mikey grabbed him by the arm, halting the blow. With both hands, he latched on to the black baton, trying to tug it away. Pete wouldn't let go, driving Mikey back.  
  
One of the back alley exits was next to the bar; Pete shoved at Mikey until he stumbled out it, almost tripping and falling. Mikey caught himself against a car parked out there and Pete pinned him there, holding his baton to Mikey's throat.  
  
He pressed the baton against Mikey's neck, pressing harder and harder despite the fingers scrabbling at it, unable to shove the baton away. The struggling grew weaker as Mikey's feet lost their grip, sliding against the pavement.  
  
Pete stared at Mikey, his eyes wide and staring straight back, not pleading but not giving up either, still trying to get away. Mikey would never give up, even seeing what Pete had become. His eyes watered, but he kept trying to breath, not fighting Pete.  
  
Just when Mikey felt like he was about to black out anyhow, Pete’s face completely changed. Pulling back and dropping the baton, he let Mikey sink to the ground, gasping for air and Pete followed, hands shaking.  
  
Mikey tugged his necktie loose and unbuttoned his collar as Pete looked over his throat, bruises already starting to show. "Run, Mikey Way, get out and find your brother, get away."  
  
Mikey blinked back tears. "You said they'd never split us up."  
  
Pete kissed him fiercely then brought a hand to Mikey's cheek, their mouths meeting again even more desperately. It felt like a goodbye and an apology, one Mikey didn’t want. He was ready to fight for what he wanted, ready to fight for Pete. Running wouldn’t change anything.  
  
"You have to run for me, Mikey," he mumbled against Mikey's lips before pulling away. Pete tugged both of them back to their feet, giving Mikey a peck before shoving him away. "Run."  
  
Shaking his head, Mikey stayed where he was. He knew Pete wouldn’t get it, but he had to stay. He had to make his point, prove that the Nazis hadn’t killed this swing kid, and hadn’t killed the swing kid in Pete either. More HJs and Gestapo poured out the door, grabbing hold of Mikey as Pete stared on, unmoving.  
  
Mikey couldn’t help wincing as they squeezed him a little too tight, throwing him in the back of a truck. “You’ll go to a work camp,” he heard Ryan sneer, but he had made his choice. He sat, staring back at Pete as more of the swing kids were also thrown into the truck bed. Finally full, the truck started pulling away. Mikey saw Gerard standing in the alley on the other side of the street, the look on his face a mix of sadness and pride. He raised his arm in a salute, yelling, “Swing heil!”  
  
It was the only encouragement Mikey had to offer, but it seemed to do the trick, pride winning out on Gerard’s face as he returned the salute. “Swing heil,” he screamed, voice hoarse from the singing. “Swing heil, Mikey!” Pete was still staring, until Mikey couldn’t see him anymore.  
  
The truck moved slow, rattling down the street with a load of scared-looking teenagers. Mikey didn’t want to think about what the work camp would be like. The work camp might as well have killed his father, for how long he lived after he left there. “Mikey! Mikey!” He turned, startled to hear his name called.  
  
Pete was running after the truck at top speed. “Herr Wentz,” one of the Gestapo on the truck brandished his gun, “What is your business?”  
  
Mikey held his breath as Pete ignored them, running after the truck still. “Mikey,” he called again and Mikey pushed himself to his feet. “Swing heil!” It was the bravest thing Mikey had ever seen. Thinking fast, he shoved the nearest Gestapo off the truck and jumped over the side, rolling as he hit the ground.  
  
He was bruised, but hadn’t been shot, and Mikey looked up to see the other swing kids following his lead and jumping off the truck. Pete offered him a hand up and they embraced again, Mikey’s hand curling around the back of his neck to pull his mouth close.  
  
A whistle disrupted them, and they jumped apart. “We gotta get outta here,” Pete reminded him and tugged him into the nearest alley. They ran through the maze of the city, ducking into the shadows every time they heard footsteps. Mikey wasn’t sure how they did it, but they weren’t getting caught.  
  
“So what do we do now?” he asked Pete finally, unable to keep from grinning at him.  
  
Laughing, Pete countered, “Hey, why’s that up to me? You decide. We could go to France. Or if you don’t wanna, I guess we could stay here, maybe find a resistance movement around here. It’s your call.”  
  
“Why do I have to decide?” Mikey asked, biting his lip as he considered the options. There was always Mr. Harris, if they stayed. And he could probably get them out of the country easier if they wanted to leave. He was suddenly glad he’d never given in, the times he’d doubted his choice not to turn him in to the Nazis.  
  
“Well…” Pete shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. “There’s that whole thing where I’ve been making some pretty shitty choices lately.”  
  
Mikey smiled sheepishly, unable to disagree. “Whatever we decide, we have to make a stop on the way.” At Pete’s questioning look, he explained, “I know someone who’d want to come with us.”  
  
“Who?” Pete asked, looking suddenly confused.  
  
“Gerard,” Mikey reminded him. He rolled his eyes incredulously.  
  
With a smirk, Pete added, “And don’t forget about Frank either. Man, Mikey, once we get them, we’re gold.”  
  
“Pure gold,” Mikey agreed.

**Author's Note:**

> Character commits suicide, not any of the characters in the pairings


End file.
